


my blood is singing with your voice

by junsnow



Series: A Feast of Kinks [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Blood Play, Dark!Sansa, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Jonsa Kink Week, Mentions of past abuse, Murder, Mutilation, Post Battle of The Bastards, Post-Battle Kink, Ramsay is the one getting tortured and murdered in case it wasn't clear, Smut, This is really violent, Torture, Violence, basically jonsa fucking in front of a bleeding ramsay lol, i guess jon is kinda dark too, jonsakinkweek, please read all the tags before you decide to read this fic, set just before the last scene in 6x09, vague mentions of past rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 08:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13586631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junsnow/pseuds/junsnow
Summary: Jon is so enraptured by the slide of her tongue against his he forgets they’re not alone. That is, until she pushes at his chest and separates their mouths.“I’ll kill him,” he offers, desperate to have her close again.“No. I want him to watch.”-Day 5: Post-Battle/Blood Kink.





	my blood is singing with your voice

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Florence + The Machine’s “Howl”. Once again I warn you to heed the tags. This is the darkest shit I ever wrote.

Jon is still covered in blood when Sansa summons him. He is eager to wash it all off, to feel clean again, but he heeds her calling first.

 

She is standing by the entrance to the kennels, tall and regal as she stares down the man tied to a chair inside. It’s Ramsay Bolton, he knows, and Jon feels his blood boil again at the sight, even while part of him is proud of how bloody he looks. _He_ had done that; smashed his ugly, smug face into a gory mess. Jon wants to do it again, wants to keep going until he feels the last breath leave the monster’s body. But he had stopped before, for Sansa’s sake, and she stood next to him now, an inscrutable mask placed on her graceful face.

 

Sansa unlocks the gate and steps inside, signaling Jon to follow. She asks Jon for his dagger, and he complies, watching her walk up to Ramsay and stare him down, unaffected by the poison in the man’s gaze.

 

“You had a clever tongue,” she tells him. “You won’t be needing it anymore. Any last words?”

 

“You may kill me,” his wormy lips curl with his response, “but you’ll never be rid of me. I’m part of you now.”

 

“You would think so.” She says, almost pitiful. “But you’re wrong. You couldn’t break me, and you will see it for yourself before I let you die. Jon,” she calls to him suddenly, “Hold his mouth open.”

 

Jon did as he was told, keeping the man’s jaw and face on a painfully hard grip.

 

“I’ve never done this before.” she addressed Ramsay again, bringing the knife up. “You must’ve done it a thousand times. Will it hurt more if you struggle? I suppose we should use a hot knife and pincers, but we’ll make do. I don’t want to keep you from bleeding, in any case.” Her gloved hand reached for his tongue, and Jon kept an even tighter hold to make sure he couldn’t bite off her fingers.

 

She does it at once, not allowing herself to hesitate, but Jon notices how her hands shake. Ramsay tries not to scream in pain—as it turns out, he is as susceptible to it as any man is. Blood flows out of his mouth in a red cascade, and his sputtering makes some of it land on them. His cries ring awkward and hollow by his lack of a tongue, so Sansa ties a rag around his mouth, tightly, muffling the weak sounds.

 

“There,” she says, “we need you quiet.”

 

_Quiet for what?_ Jon wants to ask, though he stays quiet.

 

Sansa removes one glove with her teeth, while her other hand keeps hold of Jon’s dagger, then switches. It leaves little drops of blood on her lips, which she swipes at with her tongue. She presses the blade to Ramsay’s face.

 

“Jon did quite a number on you.” She smiles, turning to look at him briefly. Something rumbles in Jon’s chest. “But the blood is all dry now. I need more.” She slices through the skin of Ramsay’s cheek, revealing a new, fresh trickle of blood. Her long, elegant fingers gather some of it, and then she turns to Jon, painting his lips red with a touch of her fingertips.

 

Jon’s breath hitches at what she does next—she retraces the path of her fingers with her tongue, sliding against his lips before she slips it inside his mouth with a moan. Before he knows it, he is kissing her back, returning that sound with one of his own. The taste of blood, along with something else, something sweet— _Sansa’s taste_ , he thinks, awakens the hunger he felt earlier on the battlefield. They say there’s nothing like having a woman after a fight, but Jon had never done it after any of his battles.

 

It was a primal feeling, as if he had turned himself into a beast. His own blood was singing, asking for _her_. If the thought that Sansa was his half-sister even crossed his mind, it was quickly suppressed.

 

She brought her hands to his dirty curls, releasing the tie at the back so she could tread her fingers through it as she pushed her body flush against his. At the feel of his hardness against her, she grinded harder against him, making him groan and settle his hands at her tiny waist, encouraging her movements.

 

Her hands leave his hair to undo her cloak, but her lips stay attached to his. Jon is so enraptured by the slide of her tongue against his he forgets they’re not alone. That is, until she pushes at his chest and separates their mouths.

 

“I’ll kill him,” he offers, desperate to have her close again.

 

“No. I want him to watch.” She says with finality. “I don’t want him to enjoy it, though.” Sansa picks up the dagger she had dropped before and puts it in his hand, giving him a significant look.

 

Somehow, Jon knows just what she wants without her having to ask. He walks toward the chair, looking down at the demon in human skin tied to it. Jon doesn’t waste a second in plunging his knife between the man’s legs, feeling the blade cut through fabric and flesh alike. He twists the blade, relishing the agony it brings to that twisted face. Ramsay had done the same to Theon, Sansa had told him. While there was no love lost between himself and the Greyjoy heir, it felt sweet to enact this small act of justice. It was no less than what this monster deserved, after everything he did, to Sansa, to Theon, to Rickon, and countless others.

 

Finally, he removes his dagger, putting it back in its sheath, and letting the blood seep freely from the man’s breeches. He turns back to Sansa—she’s giving him this _look_ , which he’s never seen the like before on her face. Jon tries to think of ways to describe it, but he can only come up with one word: lust. She looks ready to pounce him, and it sparks something deep within him.

 

They both reach for the other, joining in a searing kiss. Their mouths slant together, open and needy, as their hands roam their bodies in a rush to undress each other. Jon backs her up against the nearest wall, and Sansa eagerly opens her legs for him. He cups her underneath her smallclothes, finding her slick and ready for him.

 

“Jon…” she moans as his fingers caress her cunt. “Please, Jon… _Mmm...Fuck me._ ”

 

He pushes the last of her garment down, freeing the path for his aching cock. Jon guides himself inside her, slowly. He groans at the tight fit that welcomes him, inch after inch. Sansa is impatient, angling her hips up to meet his, so Jon grabs her ass with both hands and starts thrusting into her.

 

“Jon,” she whimpers, wrapping her legs around him and urging him deeper, “harder, please…”

 

Jon pulls all the way out before slamming back in. “Like this, Sansa?”

 

“Yes, yes! Just like that.” She moans loudly in approval, and he keeps his pace, ramming into her with hard strokes. “Jon…you’re so— _anh!_ —so good…don’t stop!”

 

Before long, she turns to putty in his hands, moaning nonsensically. Jon admires the sight of her; she looks beautifully debauched, ivory skin flushed and rosy lips swollen. He claims her lips again in wet kiss that burns with the urgency of their joining. She continues to moan into his mouth, and he’s struck dumb by all of it—he’d never imagined her to be this wanton…but he _had_ imagined her, he couldn’t deny it now.

 

His half-sister, formidable and noble, always so ladylike, so proper, starts to clench around him, and Jon swallows her sweet cries as her body stiffens in her peak. Her cunt sears him with its tight heat, and his fingers dig harder into the skin of her ass as he bucks into her. He feels his climax approaching, looks down to where they are joined and gapes at the sight of his cock sliding in and out of her, coated by her juices. Suddenly it’s too much, too _good_ , and he stills, falling off the edge of the precipice. He groans against her mouth, filling her with his warm cum. 

 

He thinks he forgot how to breathe, until she breathes life into him again. He realizes he shouldn’t have spent inside her—she would have to find some moon tea, later—but in the heat of the moment it was last thing on his mind. Jon wonders if she’ll scold him for it, but she only kisses him, softly caressing his blood-caked face.

 

“Come on now, you need a bath.” She unwraps her legs from him, and he slips out of her, contented. They dress in silence, but it’s not tense. Something shifted between them, and the air was rich with it. It smelled to Jon like a promise, or so he hoped.

 

Before they leave, she throws one last look over her shoulder.

 

“It’s time to feed the hounds.”

 

 

 


End file.
